“Mr. Collins!” Lizzy said, jumping out of her chair. “We forgot about Mr. Collins. Lydia and Papa will be coming home tomorrow. You know our sister well enough to anticipate the drama that will unfold. Mr. Collins cannot stay here or everyone from here to London will know of our troubles. Jane, what are we to do?”
Lizzy was right. Lydia would make no effort to rein in her emotions, no matter who was in the house, and she could just picture her loudly pining over the loss of her dear Wickham. Mr. Collins had to go. But where? And then Jane smiled. “I know exactly where Mr. Collins can go.”
“Mrs. Crenshaw, allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr. Collins. He was to be married today, but his bride is unwell, and the wedding has been postponed.”
Mr. Collins gave a wan smile. He was uncomfortable being introduced to a woman who was clearly nearing her time of confinement, but Mrs. Crenshaw’s genuine warmth and sincerity soon put him at his ease.
“When I received Jane’s note asking if I could accommodate you for a few days, I was very happy to do so. With Charles gone, it will be good to have the company as I enjoy conversation very much.”
Since Jane had hosted the four eldest Crenshaw children at Longbourn, much had changed. Charles’s sister had tearfully confided in Jane that she was tired of being the leader of a “pack of wolves,” as her husband characterized their family, but that everyone else described as a bunch of barbarians. She knew the children could be brought to heel because she had once employed a Scotsman, Mr. Campbell, who had performed miracles, even with Gaius and Lucius. But when her husband continuously interfered, Mr. Campbell had tendered his resignation, and the wolf cubs were released to run wild once again.
Jane had provided the encouragement necessary for her future sister-in-law to exercise greater control over her family. Without bothering to consult her husband, Mrs. Crenshaw had rehired Mr. Campbell, giving him full authority over the children, and had enrolled Lucius and Gaius in the same boarding school the tutor had attended in Scotland. As Mr. Campbell had explained, “Mr. Crenshaw wishes for his sons to be Spartans, and I can assure you the environment at Glenkill meets the very definition of Spartan.” She had bid a tearful good-bye to an anxious Lucius and a defiant Gaius, but she was convinced they would survive the ordeal and would be all the better for it.
The two chatterboxes struck up an immediate friendship, and as Jane departed, she could hear Mr. Collins describing the fireplace at Rosings and Mrs. Crenshaw offering to lend the parson her copy of Rousseau’s Social Contract.
Before climbing into bed, Jane watched as Lizzy reread Mr. Darcy’s note. It wasn’t the brevity of the note that was so distressing; it was the signature, “Yours, F. Darcy,” that was the source of her unhappiness.
“Jane, I do not know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. That is how someone would sign a business letter.”
“Are you concerned about the depth of his regard for you?” Jane asked.
“I don’t know. What I do know is that his moods change as quickly as the weather in the Peak. And this matter with Lydia. Is there anything that better illustrates the shortcomings of our family than his having to travel all that distance to save our sister from ruin? He must be asking himself, where was her mother? Where was her father? More importantly, does the possibility exist of another scandal in the family?”
“Lizzy, I understand your concerns, but despite the failings of our family, which Mr. Darcy was well aware of, he surrendered all when he fell in love with you.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, I am sure he did. It is just that he is methodical—no false starts. He wants everything just so before he will proceed.”
“Yes, I agree. Mr. Darcy is a cautious man—one who takes only small steps.” As Lizzy lay there in the dark, she thought, so much for spanning a chasm in one giant leap of love.
Chapter 45
Darcy stared at the writing paper hoping for a bolt of inspiration to hit him as he was bereft of ideas. He was not a man of words—either verbal or written. He said what needed to be said, and no more, and there were times when his taciturn nature had worked to his advantage. On the afternoon when he had gone to Longbourn to apologize to Elizabeth for his rudeness at the assembly, the conversation had turned to his intolerance for idle discourse. If it had not been for that, he would have quickly left her parlor, and possibly, just as quickly returned to London. So a case could be made for the employment of an economy of words, although he doubted Elizabeth would see it that way.
Out of the corner of his eye, Darcy caught sight of his cousin, Lord Fitzwilliam, dressed in all his sartorial splendor in a peacock blue coat with an embossed design, matching blue breeches, and a gold waistcoat. There were few in London society who could successfully get away with dressing as their fathers had, but Antony was one of them.
“Greetings, my dear cousin!” he said as he dangled a calling card in front of Darcy. “I dined at my club this afternoon, and guess who was there? Never mind. You do not have to guess. Sir John Montford. If you look at the back of the card, you will see it is his intention to call tomorrow afternoon at 4:00. Why so late, you ask? It is because the rotund gentleman does not miss a meal, and any time sooner would have interfered with his two-hour midday dinner.”
4:00? So much for setting out for Hertfordshire tomorrow, Darcy thought.
“What are you doing there—writing a love letter?” Antony asked, while peering over Darcy’s shoulder. “All you have is the salutation.”
“Yes, I know it needs work,” Darcy said, only partly in jest.
Antony pulled a chair over so that he was sitting right next to his cousin and offered his help. “I have lots of experience in this area, and I can assist you.” Since Darcy was suffering from a severe case of writer’s block, he accepted Antony’s offer. “It should be easy to compliment someone as beautiful as Elizabeth Bennet. For example, you might say that her dark eyes hold the secrets of the universe.”
“What the devil does that mean?”
“That she is mysterious.”
“But she is not mysterious. She is open and honest—something I greatly admire.”
“Is that what you want to write?”
Dear Elizabeth,
Allow me to compliment you on your openness and honesty.
Sincerely, Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esq.
“Don’t be ridiculous. But I have never understood why someone would write a letter telling another person what they look like. Elizabeth does own a mirror.”
“Oh, this is going to be harder than I thought,” Antony said, groaning. “It is not what she looks like in the mirror; it is what she looks like in your eyes.”
Darcy thought about her dark eyes, and if they did not hold the secrets of the universe, they certainly held the secrets of his heart.
After watching Darcy jot down a few of his thoughts, Antony asked, “Have you kissed her?”
“Why?”
“Because if you have, you may write of how you felt when your lips met hers—the heat, the passion, all thoughts deserting you, except those of her, and how at that moment, the two of you became one—inseparable and complete.”
“That is very nice, Antony. I can see how that would be a pleasing sentiment.”
“Sarah Compton loved it.”
“Good God. I am not going to write to Elizabeth using words you have written to your mistress.”
“Former mistress. And what is the difference between using my words or copying out one of Will Shakespeare’s sonnets?